


What is this feeling called?

by kioku96



Category: Tales of the Abyss
Genre: Everyone is suffering, Gen, hurt and no comfort, internal dialogue and self evaluation, it doesn't get better, or kinda? not too indepth, story spoilers, sync is suffering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 08:20:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,369
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28560456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kioku96/pseuds/kioku96
Summary: It first began when he stood on the Tartarus, sneering at Ion with his outstretched hand as he took a step backwards, letting gravity pull him down towards the planet core.The second time when he watches Ion perish.It becomes the third time when he stands face to face as the final defense to the onslaught against Van’s plot -- his final chance before he strikes out -- and the odd sensations he feels causes a chill to run down his spine and a tightness in his chest.It’s as if he’s reaching some sort of conclusion, some sort of revelation, but he's not ready.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	What is this feeling called?

It first began when he stood on the Tartarus, sneering at Ion with his outstretched hand as he took a step backwards, letting gravity pull him down towards the planet core. The feelings of contempt of his own existence -- _for Ion’s_ \-- and the burning jealousy of not having what just couldn’t be his ( _or what could’ve been_ ) writhed within. The ‘ _what ifs’_ that were just fantasies he should never entertain for he is a failure that didn’t deserve them (let alone be permitted to have them) -- no matter how much a voice whispers it was never his fault nor his wish to have been born like this. 

His anger flares, questioning why is it only those seen as heroes that get their ‘happy ending.” Where is the justice here? The bitterness twists his insides, but perhaps he is a fool for secretly wishing that he could’ve been given his own justice for the sin of his own existence -- a mistake, an atrocity, a _crime._

He falls and falls, cursing his very existence, but he can’t forget the way they looked at him in what he believed to be his final moments.

Perhaps it isn’t half bad to become the villain in his own story -- the one they couldn’t save.

His heart twinges a bit as he closes his eyes, relishing in what he feels will be the first and last time anyone will ever look at him in a way that he could pretend are looks of anguish and misery at his death; that he did have meaning and that his life wasn’t a complete waste and mistake. That there is in fact someone out there that, if he pretended hard enough, actually cared.

But he wouldn’t make that mistake, _no_ , all he had was his anger and contempt for the world. He could sense it, that he was teetering at the edge if not dancing on thin ice cracked and ready to shatter beneath him. Thoughts whispered at the back of his mind, but he had silenced them for he wouldn’t be able to handle it anymore if it were anything more than this.

What did it matter now though?

The ache subsides as he descends into the core, for once feeling a semblance of contentment of an end that might actually be not too bad.

But perfect ends don’t exist and the world has already determined he doesn’t deserve them.

* * *

The second time when he watches Ion perish.

He wants to laugh from his hidden position, pondering that maybe it is in his own failures that allowed him to surpass the very one that was considered a success by outliving him. Doesn’t that make him a bit more valuable than the trash he is?

However, as he watches them fight with anguished and angered cries, he realizes something is off.

Ion... why did _he_ matter?

Sync feels hollow before a disgusting feeling wells within for just a moment, and he’s taken aback, scoffing as he realizes just what it is.

He’s _jealous_.

But it isn’t the same as the jealousy he’s always felt. It was something more. More than the tunneled anger that he -- Ion -- always had it better than Sync.

It was a jealousy that was bleeding into a pain that wasn’t quite the same as receiving a wound.

His chest aches as he looks on, searching for an answer. He should be ‘happy’ that Ion is dead, however, now that he is gone, Sync feels a bit empty and the lingering ache doesn’t go away. How could that be, now that one of the objects of his hatred is finally gone?

How could that be?

Shouldn’t all replicas share the same fate? Didn’t they all have nowhere to go? They didn’t belong here, never have.

Then why?

He snarls to himself, but that sounds just as empty as his own footsteps as he sets out to find Van.

The image of this scene burns itself into his mind.

Replicas didn’t deserve to exist. No one cared, certainly not any sane original. Replicas were a _mistake_ that needed to be _corrected_.

Then _why?_

Why was Ion proof that perhaps Sync had been wrong all along?

He didn’t want to believe it (he’s scared to) -- because if he does, he’s already passed the final line and it’s _too late_ to reach out for what he might’ve been hoping for all this time. _It’s too late_ \-- so he strides forward.

He hates the score, but perhaps a life where there are no ifs and other possibilities would’ve been better than this curse of entertaining things he just couldn’t have. Not when it’s _too late._

He laughs (but it’s empty).

* * *

It becomes the third time when he stands face to face as the final defense to the onslaught against Van’s plot, Sync’s remaining hope when he never had hope to begin with.

The third time -- his final chance before he strikes out -- and the odd sensations he feels causes a chill to run down his spine and a tightness in his chest. It’s as if he’s reaching some sort of conclusion, some sort of revelation, but he’s not ready.

The pain is real, suffocating him between his desire to disappear with the dawning realization that there’s something wrong with himself, something different that had never been a problem before. There is an intrinsic fear that grips his heart as it weighs on him that he is losing this battle.

His memories flash in his mind, his very first memory of wretched misery, heat of smoke and volcanic air invading his lungs as he is falling. The desperation resurges as the memories dance and his own blood on the ground is so red, the flashes of flames of a spell reminiscent of the vision of a sea of lava and cries of death. Staggered steps in a messy dance which he recognized as the struggle to live, a performance he told himself he didn’t want to perform, for who was he performing for?

He thrashes and hears the rush of his blood in his ears, and is trying so hard to win for Van so Van can be his guillotine to exact his revenge against the score. To give him the justice he craved. But he realizes it too late and he laughs -- what did matter whether it was Van who destroyed the score or someone else?

He fights and fights, but fear grips him once more, and he struggles with the question: what was there to fear? He had nothing to lose, unless he unknowingly gained something along the way.

He is struggling to breathe but he fights desperately, oh so _desperately_ , trying to convince himself that this is _what he wants_ because it’s all that he ever had. It’s the only thing that had a semblance of worth in a world that never needed him.

He lashes out with what he has left and looks into the eyes of the people he finally realizes he wishes would save him -- his own image, reflected in the blades that rip into his body, one who doesn’t beckon death but pleads for life.

He realizes too late, as he lies in a pool of his own blood, surrounded by his enemies in his final moments.

He’s _terrified_.

The pool expands and feels warm despite how cold he feels, and finds he isn’t ashamed of wanting to live despite all his claims otherwise. He didn’t want to die. Not anymore.

But it’s _too late!_

He’s scared that his final memory will be of contempt for what he did, the crimes he’s committed that he can never make up for.

He opens his eyes for a moment and he regrets it, for the grim mood and what is reflected in their eyes make Sync realize that he realized it is too late now to make amends for what he did --- that he had lost his chance, his opportunity, to what could’ve been a life that was worth fighting for.

It’s faint, but he can feel Luke grasping his hand, voice unclear in the white noise Sync finds himself being plunged into.

His eyes sting, and he realizes too late… _too late_...

_He’s crying._


End file.
